The Amber Room Page 0,8

World War Two, Nazi loot was hastily stashed inside hundreds of tunnels crisscrossing these ancient mountains. Some were also used as ammunition dumps, which complicates

the search, making the venture even more hazardous. In fact, more than two dozen people have lost their lives in this area since World War Two, trying to locate treasure."

Rachel came close and kissed him on the cheek. "I have to go." He turned from the television. "Paul be here at seven?" She nodded and headed for the door.

He immediately returned his attention to the television.

FIVE

Borya waited until the next half hour, hoping headline news would contain some story repeats. And he was lucky. The same report on Wayland McKoy's search of the Harz Mountains for Nazi treasure appeared at the end of the six-thirty segment. He was still thinking about the information, twenty minutes later, when Paul arrived. By then he was in the den, a German road map unfolded on the coffee table. He'd bought it at the mall a few years back, replacing the dated National Geographic one he'd used for decades.

"Where are the children?" Paul asked.

"Watering my garden."

"You sure that's safe for your garden?"

He smiled. "It's been dry. They can't hurt."

Paul plopped into an armchair, his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned. "That

daughter of yours tell you she put a lawyer in jail this morning?"

He didn't look up from the map. "He deserve it?"

"Probably. But she's running for reelection, and he's not one to mess with. That fiery temper is going to get her in trouble one day."

He looked at his former son-in-law. "Just like my Maya. Run off half-crazy in a moment."

"And she won't listen to a thing anybody says."

"Got from her mother, too."

Paul smiled. "I bet." He gestured to the map. "What are you doing?" "Checking something. Saw on CNN. Fellow claims art is still in Harz Mountains." "There was a story in USA Today on that this morning. Caught my eye. Some guy

named McKoy from North Carolina. You'd think people would give up on the Nazi legacy thing. Fifty years is a long time for some three-hundred-year-old canvas to languish in a damp mine. It would be a miracle if it wasn't a mass of mold." He creased his forehead. "The good stuff already found or lost forever." "I guess you should know all about that."

He nodded. "A little experience there, yes." He tried to conceal his current interest, though his insides were churning. "Could you buy me copy of that USA newspaper?" "Don't have to. Mine's in the car. I'll go get it."

Paul left through the front door just as the back door opened and the two children trotted into the den.

"Your papa's here," he said to Marla.

Paul returned, handed him the paper, then said to the children, "Did you drown the tomatoes?"

The little girl giggled. "No, Daddy." She tugged at Paul's arm. "Come see Granddaddy's vegetables."

Paul looked at him and smiled. "I'll be right back. That article is on page four or five, I think."

He waited until they left through the kitchen before finding the story and reading every word.

GERMAN TREASURES AWAIT? By Fran Downing, Staff Writer

Fifty-two years have passed since Nazi convoys rolled through the Harz Mountains into tunnels dug specifically to secret away art and other Reich valuables. Originally, the caverns were used as weapons manufacturing sites and munitions depots. But in the final days of World War II, they became perfect repositories for pillaged loot and national treasures.

Two years ago, Wayland McKoy led an expedition into the Heimkehl Caverns near Uftrugen, Germany, in search of two railroad cars buried under tons of gypsum. McKoy found the cars, along with several old master paintings, toward which the French and Dutch governments paid a handsome finder's fee.

This time McKoy, a North Carolina contractor, real estate developer and amateur treasure hunter, is hoping for bigger loot. He's been a part of four past expeditions and is hoping his latest, which starts next week, will be his most successful. "Think about it. It's 1945. The Russians are coming from one end, the Americans from another. You're the curator of the Berlin museum full of art stolen from every invaded country. You've got a few hours. What do you put on the train to get out of town? Obviously, the most valuable stuff."

McKoy tells the tale of one such train that left Berlin in the waning days of World War II, heading south for central Germany and the Harz Mountains. No records exist of its destination, and he's hoping the